


Immortals

by tricksterity



Series: anything could happen [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M, also romantic swordfighting dates?, idk - Freeform, romantic elk dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I fear dark times ahead, and with you spending so much time in my Greenwood, I would like for you to be well defended. You are as efficient with a bow as my kin are, and yet it will not help you in closer combat or once you have run out of arrows,” Thranduil said. Bard was hit by something deep within his chest at the elf’s words, and though his heart tightened as he felt the true meaning behind the elvenking’s words, he could not help but tease.</p><p>Thranduil and Bard ride out to the expanses that stretch from Mirkwood to the Grey Mountains and Erebor, so that Thranduil may teach the bowman how to fight with an elven blade.</p><p>(yeah, Bard's becoming a badass)</p><p>Sequel to "Silver Linings"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortals

The seasons had begun to warm up again, and the depths of winter had seemingly passed though touches of frost still lingered well into the morning, and the sheets of ice that had been forming on the lake were fragile enough that they broke at the touch of Bard’s boat.

 

The winter had been harsh for the people of Laketown, as the Master had been tightening his already choking grip upon them. His second-in-command, Alfrid, had taken to stalking the docks all hours of the day, sneering with those teeth of his at anybody who even looked at him wrong. There was naught the people could do, and Bard was equally as glad he could escape for a while as leaving his children behind disheartened him.

  
The Master’s spies now watched his house all hours of the day, and it would not be surprising if they kept a count of how long he was gone on his errand. Before his meeting with Thranduil, it had taken only an hour at most, and now he was gone for most of the afternoon too. Bard did not care what they thought or what ideas they conceived, as long as his family was safe.

 

As Bard approached the river’s edge, Thranduil was waiting as he usually did, but Bard immediately noticed something rather strange. The elvenking was not, for once, in shining silver, but wore a deep, blood red. It had a high collar, and he did not wear a robe as was his usual style, and he wore two swords upon his belt.

 

As Bard got close enough to jump to shore and tie up his barge, he saw an expression on Thranduil’s face which worried him slightly – amusement in the slight and arrogant raise of his brows, and excited apprehension in the purse of his lip – although his body language was relaxed and postured. His eyes glittered in the morning sun.

 

“Do I even want to know?” Bard asked as he stepped onto the rocky shores. Thranduil did not say a word, just simply raised an eyebrow as he motioned for Bard to follow.

 

“What about the barrels?” he asked, as Thranduil walked toward the shoreline that bordered the lake and the edges of the Greenwood.

 

“They will arrive later today,” was all Thranduil said, not even pausing or looking back to Bard. The bargeman sighed in frustration and followed Thranduil along the shoreline.

 

The edge of the lake did not immediately become the forest, but was instead a wide space of smooth, eroded rock. If one walked far enough along it, the space between the wood and the lake extended until one reached the lake’s edge, and wide-open expanses filled the space between the Lonely Mountain and the Greenwood, stretching towards the Grey Mountains in the far distance.

 

Deciding it was better to follow in silence rather than to question the strange motives of the elvenking, Bard simply followed behind, taking in the smooth and graceful figure of Thranduil. He had always been awed at the impossible movements of the elves, how they took not one step out of place, and how they glided forward effortlessly through the world like it parted just for them.

 

Bard followed along with large strides for many long minutes, until he was unsure where they were going, other than farther away from his barge and the river’s edge. Soon enough, however, Thranduil stopped where he was, and Bard stepped up beside him. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of faint hooves, loud and echoing like a horse that was a hundred feet tall.

 

Thranduil would seem emotionless to anyone who had not known him as long as Bard had, and he could see the slight pull of the cheek where he was fighting back his prideful smirk.

 

Then out of the tree line before them burst a creature far taller than Bard, not only by the massive horns that adorned it’s head, but also it’s powerful body. Bard had no doubt that this was the elk that Thranduil had been speaking to Tilda of many moons ago, the night of his first visit to Laketown.

 

The creature tossed its head like a horse would its mane, and approached the two without fear. Bard stood his ground as the elk approached them, as Thranduil raised his hand to place it on the elk’s head.

 

“His name is Ríon, and he has been my steed for many a year,” Thranduil said. He then took a gentle hold of Bard’s wrist and raised his hand as the great beast lowered its head for Bard to rest his hand on. Bard marveled at such a powerful, majestic creature, and at how it seemed such a perfect fit for a king such as Thranduil.

 

“I have never seen any creature quite like him,” Bard said quietly.

 

“And you never will again,” Thranduil replied. Then within seconds, the elvenking had mounted his elk, and held a hand out to Bard.

 

“Are we going somewhere?” Bard asked, and the elvenking simply raised an eyebrow, and said nothing. Bard sighed and took the hand, and due entirely to Thranduil’s strength and no maneuvering of his own, he was soon sat in front of Thranduil upon Ríon’s back.

 

Thranduil then wrapped an arm securely about Bard’s waist, which made something tingle up his spine, and used the other to grab ahold of the softly woven reins about Ríon’s antlers, and the two began to ride towards the great plains at the end of the lake.

 

They did not speak, and Bard was trapped between seeing the lake at such a distance, upon a creature more powerful than he had ever seen, the looming Grey Mountains a hazy feature on the horizon, and the feeling of Thranduil at his back with an arm secured about him, the elvenking’s chest pressed tightly to him.

 

Bard could feel smugness and possession from the arm around him, but contentment from the way that the elvenking’s fingers were lax on his hip and the steady, slow breathing from behind him.

 

Bard decided simply to lean back into the elvenking’s arms, and felt the fingers on his hip tighten infinitesimally. Ríon was a graceful creature and Bard did not at any point feel unsecured or though he would fall off, despite the lack of a saddle, as the lake rushed past him and the far Grey Mountains loomed closer.

 

He placed his own hand over the elvenking’s, and Thranduil leaned closer to rest his chin on Bard’s shoulder, and though the movement from the creature below them should have made it awkward and slightly painful, the elf rest comfortably on him.

 

The scenery passed and soon the two reached parallel to the edge of the lake, though they were a good distance away from it now. With a gentle pull on the reins, Ríon slowed down from a gallop to a canter, and Thranduil took his chin from Bard’s shoulder to look about them. He then directed Ríon to a flatter area among the uneven ground, a strange amalgamation of rocky gravel and green grass, as though the ground could not decide what it wished to be.

 

They then pulled to a stop, and Thranduil gracefully slid off the giant beast and held a hand up to Bard. He took it and dismounted, only stumbling the slightest as he did, bending his knees to prevent the shock from traveling painfully up his bones. Ríon then of his own accord headed toward the now far off tree line to graze among brighter pastures.

 

“While the ride was enjoyable, I must ask what we are doing here,” Bard said, curious yet slightly frustrated that the elvenking had spoken only two sentences and chose to allow their journey to be shrouded in mystery. Thranduil smiled and took one of the two swords from their scabbards, and Bard noticed that they were identical, and passed one to Bard.

 

The elven blade that seemed so right in Thranduil’s hand felt only uncomfortable in his own. The blade was lighter than any Bard had held, and he was much more efficient with a bow than with a sword. Unlike the few swords he had wielded in his lifetime, the sword was closer to single-edged than double, and the balance was the same, so that it felt heavier on one side than the other.

 

“How do you fare with a sword, Bard?” Thranduil asked, voice low and purring with something that sounded like excitement, and a small spark of suspicion rose in Bard’s gut.

 

“As well as any other in Laketown, though we have not much use for them, and certainly not for an elven blade such as this,” Bard replied, adjusting his grip, attempting to find some way to make the blade comfortable in his hand.

 

“I thought as such,” Thranduil said. The elvenking then walked up to Bard and behind him, molding his front to Bard’s back, maneuvering his limbs and posture into the correct position for holding the blade.

 

“I fear dark times ahead, and with you spending so much time in my Greenwood, I would like for you to be well defended. You are as efficient with a bow as my kin are, and yet it will not help you in closer combat or once you have run out of arrows,” Thranduil said. Bard was hit by something deep within his chest at the elf’s words, and though his heart tightened as he felt the true meaning behind the elvenking’s words, he could not help but tease.

 

“So you would train me as Legolas trained Bain?” he asked, and Thranduil laughed and rest his forehead on Bard’s shoulder as he did so, the elvenking’s fingers still wrapped around his wrist from where he held Bard in the right position.

 

“Yes, although I am sure you will be much more adept than Bain was, considering that you already know combat,” Thranduil replied.

 

Only a month after Thranduil’s first cloaked visit into Laketown, Bard had taken his children out on the boat to meet at the river’s edge with Thranduil and his son, whom Bard had only met formally at the feast. Bain had his own bow, although it was not as good as any elf-make bow, and was slightly too big as Bard had thought him able to grow into it.

 

Legolas had been stiff and slightly awkward at first, but as the day continued and Tilda’s constant stream of questions and excitement buffeted him, his smiles grew warmer and more genuine. He had taught Bain how to read the wind and anticipate the journey of each arrow, how to properly aim and nock an arrow, and Bain did the best he could with a too-big bow and little to no training.

 

Bard and Thranduil had sat on the rocks side-by-side, laughing and enjoying the sight of their sons together as Tilda tried to help (unsuccessfully) and Sigrid had watched from where she dipped her feet into the freezing water of the river. She had even emerged from the river toward the end of the afternoon to pick up Bain’s bow while he ate some of the food that Thranduil had brought from their halls. The bow was more suited to Sigrid’s height, and she found herself greatly enjoying it with Legolas’ calm tutelage.

 

Tilda, of course, had been jealous that she was the only one who did not get to try the bow, as it was much too big for her, and the next fortnight when they had met again, Legolas had brought her one of his old bows from his childhood. Tilda had not hit her target yet, but that did not dissuade her from standing next to her siblings on the river’s edge as they fired arrow after arrow into the trunks of trees.

 

Thranduil then moved from Bard’s back, distracting him from the memories, as he came to correct Bard’s posture from the front. He tilted Bard’s sword arm up, so his elbow pointed into the air and the blade pointed down, the curved and sharp edge pointed out. It was not the most comfortable position, especially with the twist of Bard’s wrist to hold the sword with both hands as Thranduil wanted him to, but it felt much more right than what he had been doing before.

 

“Elves fight far different to men, dwarves or other creatures of this world,” Thranduil said, keeping his hand under Bard’s raised elbow. “We do not fight with our feet planted and shields up, ready to charge. We constantly move, we twist, duck and slip into the spaces between sword and shield. We fight in circular movements, never staying in one place too long, hence the one-sided blade that we prefer.”

 

Thranduil used his hands to maneuver Bard’s sword, so that when he swung it forward slowly it moved in a smooth, wide arc. He then turned Bard’s arms downward so that Bard might make the same movement but to the left and lower, and then back up to the previous highward arc.

 

“We are disciplined and fully aware of all movement on the battlefield – where our allies are, where our enemies are, what spaces we can move into and ones we must cleave ourselves. Our fighting is unique in this world, which is what makes elves unpredictable and dangerous in battle – none of the other races in this world have much training to fight against us,” Thranduil continued, helping Bard with the two movements until he was able to do it on his own. With the sword pointed outward and to the side, the slicing movements seemed natural with the type of blade he held, in figure-eight patterns before him.

 

“Though how you use a blade is important, where you place your feet is even more important,” Thranduil said, taking a step back. He drew his own sword and settled into the first stance he had put Bard in, sword pointed down, as he took light steps and curved to the left.

 

“I do not have the grace of an elf, Thranduil,” Bard pointed out, and Thranduil smirked.

 

“That is where you are wrong,” he replied. “You will never have the agility of the elves, that is true, but you do indeed have our balance and light feet. It is how you walk upon the boats in the water – you place your feet in the right places, you do not falter with your steps, and your balance shall not fail you.”

 

Bard then settled into the first stance, as Thranduil was, and began to move as Thranduil did, imagining himself not on land but upon water. Balance was crucial on a boat – one wrong step too far in one direction would unbalance the vessel and oneself, and once you lost that balance it was far too difficult to gain it again. But if one placed their feet in exactly the right places and moved in the right way, with practice, it became just as easy as walking upon the ground.

 

Without warning, Thranduil struck out his sword, and Bard immediately countered it with his own blade, snapping it down and forward in an arc. Thranduil’s lips pulled up into a proud smile, and Bard’s heart leapt in his chest; both at Thranduil’s pride, and at how well he had picked up such a simple movement. He now understood why Thranduil had left his floor-length cloaks back in his halls – they would be difficult to fight in.

 

Thranduil did not train him fast nor hard, he simply allowed Bard to perform the same simple stances and footwork until it became almost ingrained, an instinctual way of moving and response. He would occasionally test this by striking Bard with his sword, initiating a playful skirmish for a few moments before darting backwards.

 

Bard barely felt the hours pass, though the sun passed from the east to the west, and the time seemed to pass so slowly yet quickly he did not notice when their steps became more complicated.

 

Thranduil was darting inward from all angles now, not just from the front but from behind, where Bard had to spin around to block him, to anticipate his movements and to feel at all times where he was, and to keep his own balance on his feet light so he could move swiftly.

 

Soon, however, as Bard blinked a drop of sweat from his eye, Thranduil caught the better of him, and he found the elvenking’s blade at this throat. Though they had not fought too intensely, Bard found himself rather exhausted, though Thranduil looked as though he had simply been taking a leisurely stroll all afternoon.

 

The elvenking smirked and sheathed his blade, and Bard lowered his own, chest heaving and he felt his stomach ache with hunger.

 

“Do not be too disappointed in having been bested, it is still early days yet,” Thranduil teased, and Bard sent a quick kick to his shins that had the elvenking laughing quietly. Bard rolled his eyes and passed the sword back to Thranduil to sheath.

 

They walked side-by-side back towards where Ríon was still grazing by the tree line, shoulders brushing against each other’s. Bard had long since pulled his hair back into a knot to prevent the sweat from gathering at the back of his neck, and a cool breeze brushed pleasantly past him.

 

“Honestly, I did not think that you would do as well as you did,” Thranduil admitted quietly as the two walked together. Bard resisted the urge to smirk and tease back, knowing that moments like this with the elf were rare.

 

“Thank you,” Bard said. The elvenking suddenly took his hand and pulled Bard around to look at him, both of them stopping in the middle of the field.

 

“You must understand that I do not teach you from the goodness of my heart,” Thranduil said. “I have grown more fond of your and your family than I ever thought I would have. The darkness grows and I would not have ones I care about unable to protect themselves, and to fight as an elf will give you a much greater advantage should battle happen.” As Thranduil said this, he was firm, but there was also a vulnerability hidden deep within his eyes. Bard smiled gently and raised a hand to the elf’s cheek, running his thumb across his cheekbone.

 

“I know,” was all Bard said in reply.

 

“I am selfish, and I will not lose you any earlier than I must,” Thranduil said, voice so quiet Bard would not have heard it had they been anywhere else but the silent expanse they stood. The bargeman knew exactly what kind of admission this was from one who was immortal, and took a step forward to press his lips to Thranduil’s. It was chaste, and soft, and Thranduil was almost shocked as it took him a moment before he placed his own hand upon the back of Bard’s head.

 

Bard pulled back and looked up at the elvenking with a small grin.

 

“I am not planning on being lost any earlier, either,” he replied, and on the ride back to the river’s edge, Thranduil wrapped both arms about his waist, and Bard gave himself a private grin. They dismounted from the elk at around the same point they had encountered him, and Bard gave Ríon a friendly stroke on the flank before the beast turned around and headed back into the woods.

 

Somehow, within minutes of the two arriving back, the barrels began to round the corner of the river, and Bard shook his head at the smirk on Thranduil’s lips. As per usual, Thranduil simply watched as Bard rolled the barrels back onto shore, and Bard did not notice that his steps were much more graceful than they had been that morning.

 

There were ten barrels in total, and once Bard had loaded them onto his barge, he came to sit beside Thranduil on the rock, content to enjoy the warming sun and to speak gently to each other.

 

Then a rustling came from behind them, but Thranduil simply turned his head, and Legolas emerged from the woods with his bow and quiver strapped to his back as per usual. The elf smiled as he approached the two of them, though with an apologetic dip of his head.

 

“ _Ada_ , you are needed back in the halls urgently,” he reported. “Sorry, Bard.” The bargeman smiled and waved it aside as the two stood, and Thranduil ran a hand down from his shoulder to wrist.

 

“It is alright Legolas, it is about time I return to my own children,” Bard replied.

 

“What does Bain think of the arrows?” Legolas asked, referring to the elven-make arrows that he had given Bain during their last meeting upon the river’s edge that had made his young face light up with joy. Bain was incredibly fond of Legolas, the hero worship having subsided to great respect, and the two would often sit aside while Sigrid borrowed Bain’s arrow to talk about Legolas’ escapades.

 

“He both loves using them and is equally as worried about losing or breaking one,” Bard replied, and the prince laughed.

 

“Tell him there are always more where they came from,” Legolas replied. He then dipped his head to Bard, who returned the gesture. Thranduil took a loose hold of Bard’s hand and brought it to his mouth for a swift kiss before the two elves darted off into the forest.

 

With a sigh and the imprint of warm lips upon his knuckles, Bard returned back to his barge and cast off towards Laketown.

 

Upon his return, he was unsurprised to see Alfrid stalking the docks like an overgrown bat, and let out a low curse under his breath as the man’s beady eyes fixed upon him and his approaching vessel. Passes now had to be used to get through the gates of Laketown, though Percy never said anything other than a friendly greeting when he stamped Bard’s pass, as he was a friend and was only bringing in empty barrels for Laketown use.

 

“You’ve been gone a long time, Bard,” Alfrid sneered. “Almost the whole day.”

 

“Yes, well dealing with elves is a lengthy process if one is to be respectful and diplomatic. I’m sure the Master would not want to have bad relations with the elves of the Greenwood, now would he?” Bard replied with a raised eyebrow as he took his stamped pass from Percy, and continued on through the waters.

 

He felt a smirk more often seen on Thranduil’s face slide up onto his own as Alfrid gaped like a fish from the docks behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> "Silver Linings" was written going into winter, and this is set during the beginning of spring, so roughly 3-4 months have passed between these two pieces. Hopefully the development's at an okay pace, and this was so much fun to write despite the fact I have zero fighting ability at all and had to completely create a fighting style.
> 
> Fyi, if I wasn't clear enough on the first fighting stance, it looks a little like this: [[x](http://heirsofdurin.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/thranduil.jpg)] except Bard brings his other hand up to hold the hilt to get more grip. 
> 
> Hope u guys are enjoying these dumb in love idiots as much as I am :)


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